The Killing Hour

I wonder how far from the Garden City we’ve come. Out here it’s just one huge garden. Miles of it. It’s as if God created too many trees for Eden and dumped the surplus.

Five minutes before Wednesday morning begins the boot opens. A jangle of keys, a few thuds and bangs, and then it’s slammed shut. Landry opens my door, leans in and undoes one set of handcuffs. They dangle from the handgrip. He throws the keys for the remaining cuffs at my feet.

‘Don’t waste my time, Feldman.’

He stands a few metres from the car. Rain pours around him but he doesn’t seem to care. He has the air of a man who knows not to bother trying to stay dry because he plans on spending more time getting wet. He’s watching me with the barrel of a shotgun.

The handcuffs are difficult to unlock. My hands are sore and my fingers are shaking. Rain is blowing into the car and I blink away what to Landry must look like tears. Finally I manage to get the key into the small slot, then both hands are free. I almost faint with relief.

Then the shotgun touches my cheek. The barrel is steel and as cold as ice. I stop dead. My blood drains into the balls of my feet.

‘Grab the cuff from the handgrip, Feldman, and put it back on.’

I take his advice. It’s hard undoing it but I get there. Then I wrap one bracelet around my wrist and do it up. Then the other.

‘Don’t hold back now, Feldman. Make sure they’re nice and tight.’

I look around as I tighten the cuffs. There’s no help here. I try not to grimace as the metal bites into the bones of my wrists.

‘Keys?’

The barrel is still touching my face as I flick the keys to the edge of the seat. Holding the weapon in one arm he lowers himself and, keeping his eyes on me, reaches for them. I watch them disappear into a pocket and only now do I realise he’s changed out of his cheap suit into jeans, a flannel shirt and a dark jacket. He’s wearing a cap that says Kiss the Cook. The rain hits the brim and rolls off the edges. His loafers have been replaced with hiking boots. He’s also wearing leather gloves.

‘Come on out and don’t try anything funny, Feldman. I don’t have the patience for any trouble.’

I slowly climb from the car. On legs shaking from near cramp, cold and terror, I stand and step forward. To my left I can hear a river.

‘Enjoying yourself?’ he asks.

‘Not as much as you.’

In a blistering movement I’m on the ground, my eyes swimming in their sockets, bright lights circling them. I manage to look up at Landry but struggle to focus on him. What I can see is the shotgun in his hand, the butt facing me, and through a mind drowning in red-hot pain I slowly understand the connection. I manage to stay on my knees for a few more seconds before spilling onto my side. My jaw is throbbing. I think I’ll lie here for ever. Before I get the chance he drags me to my feet and props me against the car. He slaps me around the face, hard, as though this is going to help me think straight.

‘Okay, Mr Smartmouth, neither of us wants that to happen again, and it won’t, as long as you co-operate and stop being such a smart prick.’

My eyes are struggling to focus and it feels like I’m trying to tune his words in from far away, but yeah, I get his point. He grabs a handful of my hair and shoves my head backwards.

‘Do you understand?’

My ears hurt and I slowly nod, not wanting him to scream again. The motion is nearly enough to make me vomit.

He steps back and tracks me with the weapon. ‘Now step forward.’

I stumble forward.

‘Behind you is a cabin. It’s probably not up to your expectations but it won’t kill you. We’re going to walk over there and you’re going to make your way inside. Just keep in mind that this is a Mossberg pump-action shotgun. Mr Smartmouth …’ he pauses. ‘Can I call you Mr Smartmouth?’

I nod and it hurts.